


greyweather friends

by feralphoenix



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Anxiety Attacks, Don't copy to another site, Dysphoria, F/M, Sexual Content, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-19 00:50:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22869235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: An unexpected encounter sends Rosa spiraling to places she thought she'd long since left. Hugh, who knew her in those places, is there to help.
Relationships: Hyuu | Hugh/Mei | Rosa
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	greyweather friends

**Author's Note:**

> _(The past is never dead. It’s not even past._ – You who are reading me please help me to be born.)
> 
> some extra tag clarifications: concerning the "underage" tag, i headcanon them as being around 15-16, but rosa and hugh don't have canon ages. even my personal ballpark has a 50% chance of one or both of them being under the world's most common age of consent (16), so better safe than sorry.
> 
> the coping strategy practiced by rosa here is called distress tolerance, and is meant to make _immediate present distress_ more bearable through positive comfort and distraction. (and, yes, if you look in a dbt textbook, you WILL most likely find sex listed as a possible method.) however, distress tolerance is one of the LAST skills a person learns in dbt training, partially to help a patient avoid the temptation to misapply the skill. **SO, DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME WITHOUT FIRST CONSULTING YOUR THERAPIST.** this is a fictional frickin story and not a how-to guide.
> 
> ADDITIONALLY, when using sex to cope with distress it is VERY important to have healthy, open communication with your partner(s) beforehand so that nobody gets hurt. this is NOT a one-size-fits-all coping mechanism, and should ESPECIALLY be employed with care because sex means it isn't just your own emotional, physical, & mental wellness at risk. use educational resources like [scarleteen](http://www.scarleteen.com/) and, again, talk to your partner(s) and therapist. THIS IS A FICTIONAL FRICKIN STORY ABOUT MADE-UP CHARACTERS WHO AREN'T REAL, NOT AN ENDORSEMENT.

You’d be standing around dumbly in front of the station forever, or at least until your shaky legs drop you in a dead faint, if not for Cloe, who you didn’t have the presence of mind to recall to her Poké Ball after battling the Subway Bosses. She _barks_ at you, full-voiced and lips peeled off her teeth, sweet-natured Cloe who’s usually just as cuddly fully evolved as she was when you first got her from Bianca. She barks at you, and herds you like a Stoutland down the lane. This is no joke coming from a Samurott: Cloe is so much bigger than you’re used to her being, and heavy enough that she can easily shove you along.

And you let her do it, let her plant her pointy forehead in the small of your back and send you tilted-back and tottering across the whole city, ‘til your hightop treads are skidding on grass and you’re blinking at your first sight of Nimbasa’s famous theme park. It’s no less noisy than the rest of the city, but at least nobody’s staring, and there are benches. Cloe shoulders you over to one. You sit down on it and hug your bag and try to breathe. She lays down on your feet as if to prevent you from trying to stand, and regards you with one reproachful eye and her whiskers twitching.

For the first time since leaving Aspertia you _badly_ want to go home. Some people’s tongues might still trip over your name there but your mom would know how to handle this, handle _you_ when you’re like this. She always does, always wraps you up in blankets and gives you a hot drink and kisses your forehead and calls you _my little girl_ so you want to cry in a _good_ way.

But she’s not here, and you don’t have any Pokémon that can fly you back home—you won’t until you can teach one to, and you can’t yet. You could call her but you don’t think _she_ could fly out here either; she’s a nurse, not a formal Trainer, you have no idea if she ever got Fly for any of her team. Over the phone it just wouldn’t be the same.

There _is_ someone you _could_ call, though, you realize, belated. Someone who _is_ probably close enough to come and find you soon. Hands all shaky, you unzip your bag and fish in it for your Xtransceiver. You have to clutch the whole bag back to your chest with your left arm to keep it from trembling while you speed-dial Hugh.

“Hello?” Your best friend blinks at you from across the screen, framed by the same evening sky around you. Then he squints and frowns at you. You can only imagine what your face must look like. “Rosa, what happened?”

“We’re okay,” you say immediately. It’s Hugh, so he’s probably thinking _Team Plasma_ or wondering if you lost a battle. Maybe worrying about street creepers. “I’m not hurt, my Pokémon are fine. I’m just—” And you swallow.

Hugh breathes out. “Good to hear you’re safe, at least. Where are you? Do you need me to come help?”

“I’m—” Now you’re actually talking to a friendly face, you find yourself tearing up, and have to cut yourself off to sniffle snot back up before it starts dripping. “I’m in Nimbasa. Um. By the Ferris wheel.” You turn the Xtransceiver around so Hugh can get a good look at your surroundings. “And if you—if you wouldn’t mind I’d, I’d really um. Company would be great right now.”

“Heading your way,” Hugh says. “I’m on, like, the other side of town so it might take a minute to bike over.”

“I can wait that long,” you tell him. You _can._ Cloe gives you a Look but doesn’t yell at you this time. Really you should call her back into her ball, you don’t think you’re supposed to have a Pokémon this big running around loose with you unless they have a service license, but she wouldn’t be happy with you if you did and her bulk and weight will tide you over until Hugh gets here.

Really you wish you could let all the rest of your Pokémon out too, but they would probably cause a scene. Mom always says that Pokémon are like babies and get agitated if they sense that you’re upset. Cloe’s been with you for a while now, but some of the others on your team you only just got as recently as last week, while you were exploring Castelia. They wouldn’t know what to do and it’d just end up with _everyone_ upset.

“I gotta hang up while I bike,” Hugh says. “But I’ll be there soon and we can figure out someplace quiet to go after that.”

You wipe your face and try to force a smile. “Thanks.”

From across the screen his dark eyes search your expression. “Least I can do for my second best girl,” he says, smiling a little. (You giggle, as you bet he was aiming for—his _best_ girl is his little sister, so this has been an in-joke for as many years as he’s known.) “We’re a team, right? That means we gotta look out for each other. See you in ten minutes or less.”

He hangs up then, and you lean back to stare at the sky and take long, brittle breaths. Cloe whuffs at you and you can feel her cold nose press against your knee through your leggings.

“I’m okay,” you tell her, and stick your Xtransceiver back in your bag. “I’m gonna be okay. I need to freak out but I’ll be okay.”

You don’t look down at her, though, because the words are to convince you as much as her and you don’t doubt for a second she can read that on your face.

Hugh brings you to the hotel room where he’s staying. It’s not as fancy as the one you used in Castelia, you guess since Nimbasa is a smaller city in general, but it’s still high up enough for you to be able to see slices of turf in the nearest sports stadium, and the furnishings are dark and pretty, sophisticated-looking.

You sit on the bed, still hugging your bag. Cloe let you recall her after Hugh showed up, so you scoop your team’s Poké Balls off your belt and dump them into the bag. You don’t want to lean down to actually mess with your shoes, and they’re only halfway laced anyway, so you step them off with your arches and toes against the heels.

Hugh tosses a vending machine water bottle onto the bed next to you. It bounces a little and rolls, scattering whiskers of light across the comforter. “Drink,” he says. “And blow your nose and then you can tell me what’s up.”

You set your bag down on the floor next to the bed and grope for the tissue box on the bedside table. There’s a trash can nearby, just far enough you can’t drop used tissues directly into it without getting up; you toss them at it instead. One barely makes it in; the other rolls on the floor several inches short. A career in tissue basketball if your gym challenge falls through seems unlikely.

“There was this guy,” you begin.

“I’ll kill him,” Hugh fills in when you pause to consider how to go on, and you laugh.

“You don’t have to _kill_ him. He didn’t do anything wrong.” You press your fingers to your temples and then pinch the bridge of your nose, and sigh. “The Subway Bosses were out by the station and there was this kid our age who wanted to fight them, but he needed a doubles partner, and I was headed that way so he asked me and I said sure…”

“I think I might get in trouble for actually _killing_ the Subway Bosses,” Hugh says, “but I can probably like. At least go fist fight them or something?”

“You don’t have to,” you tell him for the second time. “We won. It was fun.”

“Oh,” says Hugh. “Well, that sounds about right for you, Rosa, you’re smart and a tough battler. So what actually _did_ happen?”

You squeeze your eyes shut and see him again in your mind’s eye: Same height as you, messy brown hair, like looking into a funhouse mirror if funhouse mirrors could turn your eyes different colors. “The guy who was my doubles partner, he… We looked _so_ much alike. It was just. I couldn’t help thinking maybe I would’ve looked just like that, if…” You rub your hands over your face. Don’t freak out. You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine. But your heart is still pounding and your shirt feels cold and wet at your armpits. “It wouldn’t have bothered me even then, though, I think. Except—his name was _Nate.”_

Next to you Hugh breathes in, quiet but sharp. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” you croak.

“I’m sorry, Rosa. I can only imagine but. Damn.”

“It wasn’t even his _fault._ I feel so bad for reacting like this. I mean. He was so nice and his Pokémon seemed to like him, and everything. I just. I can’t help it.” On the inside you’re five and running away to hide behind the curtains when the preschool teacher calls for you, unable to put words to why that name feels so ill-fitting and prickly; you’re seven and wincing when your grandpa whose memory is going calls you the wrong thing; you’re nine on the verge of panicking at the court podium for your legal name change and the only thing that’s keeping you from fainting is your mom’s hand in yours. You’re eleven and growing your hair out and wearing pastels and dresses and some people in town still forget and do double takes when they see you. It’s been over half your _life_ now and just—if dumb little things like this are _still_ making you feel like you’re fake, like this is just a costume and you’re playacting, how much longer is it going to take before you stop getting Gender Imposter Syndrome flareups at the drop of a hat, is what you want to know.

Hugh puts a hand on your shoulder, his arm warm and heavy on your back. You are _so glad_ you don’t have to explain any of this to him. He was there through all of it, he might never know what it’s like to be you from the inside but at least he _knows._ If you had to try to put all this into out-loud words you would die.

“That’s such ass,” Hugh says, low and kind, and pain throbs in your chest and then eases. “I know this isn’t the kinda thing I could wave away if I say the magic words, but I wish it did work like that. Would a hug help, at least?”

“It would,” you say, and reach quick to undo the band of your visor first so the bill won’t completely massacre his hair. You _know_ how much product he uses to get it to do that.

Hugh shifts so he’s facing you, one leg folded up on the bed, and wraps you up in wiry arms so your chin’s sitting on his shoulder and you’re pressed front to front. You wind your fingers into the back of his fleece jacket and breathe. Hugh gives good hugs. Your dad and uncles and your guy friends back home never seem to know what to do to show affection, squirming away from you or awkwardly slapping you on the back. Hugh just holds people. He’s not afraid of catching cooties by showing that he cares.

Also, being held tight like this squishes your boobs straight into his chest. It hurts a little—they keep growing steadily so they get sore—but it’s so good just knowing they’re there. Real and yours. There’s something so steadying about that.

It’s a good thing, and the easiest way to ride anxiety attacks out is to latch on to good things and not let go ‘til you start to calm. So, as a deliberate choice, you turn and kiss Hugh’s earlobe.

His muscles all jump but he doesn’t let you go. Instead his hand strokes all the way down your back and stays there, at your waist, which is still a little sore from Cloe poking you.

“You sure you’re up to this?” Hugh asks, awkward finally creeping into his voice, and you release the back of his jacket to think about it.

“Yes,” you tell him. “But I think I can’t handle anything waist down right now.”

“That’s good to know,” he says, and strokes the length of your back again. He turns his head so his mouth finds yours.

Kissing Hugh is as comforting as it is enjoyable. Over the past couple years you’ve learned how to kiss together, and since you saw each other at your respective awkward beginner phases, there’s no pressure to perform super good the way there is with the other boys and girls you’ve kissed. His lips are chapped just a little, probably from too much adventuring and too little skin care; he takes a break from tracing the bottom of your tongue with his to softly suck the peach-flavored gloss off your lower lip and make you squeak.

He’s taking too long playing when there’s the one really specific thing you want, though, so you take firm hold of his forearms and guide his hands up to your chest. Luckily that’s all he needs to catch on; his hands find a warm hold over your breasts and stay there. They’re big enough now they fit in his whole hand without his fingers having room to spill over your ribs or up your collarbone, you realize, and that makes you feel a whole lot warmer.

He starts out slow, just squeezing a little and releasing, and builds up to kneading until your heart is pounding and you feel like you’re blushing with your whole body. But your bra’s underwire is pushing uncomfortably into your ribs and no matter how happy you are to have big enough boobs now you actually _need_ an underwire bra, it’s kind of unsexy. Plus the thick cups blunt the feeling of Hugh’s hands a lot more than just your shirt would.

So you stop making fists on the sides of Hugh’s jacket and break the kiss, moving an inch back so you can fumble and pinch at your bra fastenings through the back of your shirt. It takes a couple tries but you get it, and Hugh lifts his hands off your chest so you can wriggle out of your shirt and let your bra drop off. This maneuver musses your hair up a little, but Hugh scoops your boobs back up, skin on skin, and you shiver and your nerves go all tingly and you know you made the right call.

Instead of covering the whole thing in his hands, Hugh holds your breasts like fruit, now, balanced in his palms like he’s appraising them. You look down at them, too: The faint tracery of your veins underneath your skin and the little white marks near your armpits where your skin is soft from the past couple years’ growth. The brownish pink of your areolae have gotten broader and less distinct at the edges too, the bigger your chest gets.

Hugh flicks his thumbs over and around your nipples and you almost collapse into a puddle on the mattress; your head falls back and your mouth falls open around some squeaky embarrassing noise and electric pleasure shoots straight from your boobs to your mouth and to your crotch. He plays your chest in his hands like an artist softening clay, all tender and firm. You feel his every touch through your whole entire body and every throbbing shudder of it reinforces that this is your body, that you are real. Hugh is reinforcing and strengthening the longed-for full shape of you with his every touch, kindness and friendship and love.

He squeezes down on your breasts and pinches your nipples and does this _thing_ where he doesn’t let up the clamp of them but still rolls his thumbs back and forth, and your hips and legs jump and twitch and you make some long exaggerated porny noise and your eyes roll back. You cum all over yourself, staining your leggings and shorts, and like—of course your _body_ feels satiated, but so does your heart, cathartic like a good cry.

Hugh lets you go and you flop down onto the mattress, breath huffing so hard your loose boobs jiggle just a little. This is probably some of the least involved, simplest sex you’ve ever had but you feel as worn out as if you’ve been way more physical.

“Just rest now,” Hugh says to you. He’s all pink in the face and his lips are swollen and his pupils are so blown out the deep garnet of his eyes looks black. The front of his pants is also fairly bulging, and he sorta looks down at himself and then away like he’s embarrassed, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m uh… gonna go take care of myself off in the bathroom. You can nap if you want.”

“’Kay,” you say. It feels like it takes all the energy left in you to lift one hand off the mattress and wave floppily as he gets up and circles the bed to disappear past your field of vision. A door quietly shuts far away.

You _should_ stay awake, if only so you can clean up the mess you’ve made, but… maybe better to do that after some sleep, when you’ve been calm for longer and are feeling less raw in general. And it does you good to be here, safe, together with someone who cares enough to support you like this.

So you drift off, lulled by the distant sounds of Hugh in the bathroom.

_(Further away, on the opposite side of the city, a boy named Nate strolls down the sidewalk with his Pignite, chin tilted back to look at the sky._

_“Rosa, huh,” he says, out loud but still so soft that only his Pokémon will be able to hear him. “Isn’t that funny? She has my old name,_ and _she looks so much like I did back when I still wore my hair long. Except for her eyes…”_

_His Pignite snuffles and grabs his sleeve with one forepaw. Nate looks down at his partner and laughs._

_“You’re right,” he says, beaming. “I’m glad_ somebody’s _getting some use out of that name since I don’t want it.”)_


End file.
